Life in a Cemetery

Graveyards in Kandahar –

not the same as they are back home.

Not manicured and full of flowers, but dusty,

shallow, heaped up, full of stones.

If you die a martyr here, a flag – either green or white –

will flutter, torn on a pole near the rocks at your head

until the constant flap of wind

pulls it loose.

Strangers will come and call you brother, or uncle.

Prayers will be said and your scarves will be re-hung,

your grave place decorated with pieces of salt

said to cure ailments and infertility –

you’re that holy.

Women will put these pieces of you under their tongue.

Children will go there, to your cemetery

to chase or stone cats, to make a dog drop

whatever it is he is carrying away.

You’ll hear the Jingle Trucks on the road, their horns

like something stripped from a carnival

and bursts of gunfire, meaning

either marriage or death.

At night young men will stroll past your feet,

giggling, eyes lined with kohl,

and disappear among the myriad

stone mounds, holiness forgotten.

If you had eyes left to open, you’d see them through the dark

by the graves at your feet, caught up in each other,

green-eyed like racoons, feet shoulder width apart.